


Never Fade

by atrata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-11
Updated: 2006-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrata/pseuds/atrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The problem with passion is not that it fades, but that it doesn't, and you're left alone, in an empty room."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Fade

If you close your eyes, you can still feel it: the soft press of lips, the soft scrape of stubble, the soft grip of soft hands tentatively working your prick. Everything about the boy was _soft_. Everything, and nothing.

*

It isn't the silence. Silence, after years of screaming schoolchildren, is a welcome reprieve. Nor is it the emptiness, the loneliness, his scent lingering on the bedclothes.

No, it's the _stillness_. Even unmoving, Potter was a whirlwind. Magic, anger, energy, all swirling around him, stirring up the air, seeping into your skin, into the marrow of your bones until all you wanted him to do was _stop_. You wanted it so much you tried to make it happen, held his hands above his head and pressed your body into his until he gasped and trembled and tightened around you. But even then you could practically see his heart beating through his thin chest, could watch the sweat bead at his temples, could feel his breath moving against your neck.

At first you found yourself trying to recreate it. You kept busy, kept moving, kept your hands in constant motion. You stirred potions and leafed through journals and jerked your prick with more skill than the boy ever had. But you never managed the sheer sense of movement which came so naturally to Potter, and it sickens you to realise you've been trying.

You stop immediately. You stop and you sink into your cracked leather armchair, and you absolutely do not move. Nothing moves -- not the dust, not the air, and were it not so absurd a notion, you would swear that time itself has stopped.

You don't know how long it lasts, this wretched stillness you never would have noticed if not for that wretched boy. But it lasts long enough to drive you mad, long enough that you begin to see him in the corner of your eye. You know it's a mirage but still you wait, heart not beating, chest not heaving, expecting him to emerge from the bedroom, hair tousled, glasses crooked. You can hear him moving about. You can smell the burnt coffee he insists on drinking.

You ignore the signs you used to pay attention to: the bile in your throat, the tension between your shoulders, the knot in your stomach. These things say you're mad, but they're wrong.

All you need to do is close your eyes and wait.

**FIN**


End file.
